


Winter's end

by lilith_morgana



Series: Son of the land [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Tumblr Prompt, Warden Cousland (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23982598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith_morgana/pseuds/lilith_morgana
Summary: War unites and he has made tyrants of them both.
Series: Son of the land [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1729204
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Winter's end

**Author's Note:**

> Posting some older tumblr fics, nothing new to see here. Written for the prompt: “Loghain and Ser Cauthrien angst? Before the landsmeet chats? Old Knight and Older Teyrn are tired of war?”

  
  
Fourteen days to the Landsmeet and Cauthrien feels it like a tremble in her bones, a dark echo of future grief. Denerim is an open wound, her own soldiers are exhausted and heartbroken to fight in their own streets, battle their own people and there is no one she can confide in.  
  
The only man who would understand sits on the throne and a face carved from granite has replaced his own.   
  
“The nobility should be brought into line,” he repeats, unrelenting like a bloody town crier. The words are hollow and hard, like eroding rocks. “Then we can attend to the darkspawn.”  
  
There will be no nobles left to fight the monsters if he does not see reason. When she tells him this he barks at her for an hour and a half and she returns to her quarters with her hands curled into fists.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
Thirteen days to the Landsmeet and Loghain orders her to escort a pair of Tevinter Magisters through the unsafe streets outside the Alienage. Children are swarming the city now that spring is finally in full bloom and they pay very little attention to the political maneuvering that takes place before their eyes. She used to find comfort in it but today the streak of guilt is too strong, its flavour soaks everything.  
  
“You call this a _city_?” the Magister huffs, two steps behind her.  
  
The sky above them is tall and light, full of veil-like clouds; Cauthrien lowers her gaze.

  
  
*

Twelve days and he stands before Maric’s Shield, discussing the matter of security with his arms folded across his chest.  
  
Cauthrien has not seen him without his old silverite armour since Ostagar. Once, a long time ago when she was young and full of wonder, he had told her its history; they had been sitting side by side in front of an open fire, cross-legged and battle-worn and Loghain spoke of other battles, other enemies with a passion that had left Cauthrien breathless. Now their eyes meet over a line of soldiers sworn to protect their regent at any cost and she feels how they merge, suddenly, how there’s no difference left between them. Should one of them move now, the other must follow; if one speaks, the words fill the other’s mouth, too.  
  
War unites and he has made tyrants of them both. She will never forgive him for it.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
Eleven days to the Landsmeet. Cauthrien polishes her sword in the light of the fireplace at night.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Ten and she finds Anora duelling a training dummy in the courtyard. Even in her royal dress, with her hair in a perfectly organised coiffure - the kind Cauthrien has never even understood how women possess the patience to wear - her strikes are fierce and quick, her rhythm unforgiving.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Nine and he sits in the throne room for the entire day, doesn’t even emerge for meals.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Eight days to the Landsmeet. Rumour has it that the Wardens they left to die at Ostagar are within the city gates once more, and this time with a whole following to have their backs.  
  
“See to it,” Loghain says and Cauthrien nods.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Seven days. Cauthrien remembers a blade aiming for her throat.

  
*  
  
  
Six days. When she wakes up the room is overly bright, overly quiet and Loghain sits by her bedside, staring at the floor.  
  
Even in his armour the broad shoulders look slumped. She blinks, grappling for an understanding, for orientation but he’s quicker. Before she’s found words, his hand is pressing down over hers on the heavy blanket - just for a moment, a fleeting moment out of time - and he sits back in his seat.  
  
“You will live.” The stern tone makes this, too, come out as an order.  
  
Cauthrien nods. The battle surfaces in her mind. It had been an even fight, a fair fight in the midst of all this unrighteous turmoil and it had nearly been won, the tide had almost turned in their favour when the Warden had raised her greatsword and Cauthrien, exhausted and in a bad position, had stumbled.  
  
“I… failed you, your grace.” She isn’t certain why she says it, if she means it.  
  
Something darkens in Loghain’s face. “You are the finest commander I have served with. Do not doubt that.”  
  
She doesn’t.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
Five days to the Landsmeet. The chantry is full of people, even the one within the palace; candles and incense burning, chants being sung and mumbled, sisters offering prayers and comfort.  
  
_Maker, forgive us. Maker, have mercy._  
  
This is how the world could end, consumed by darkspawn. This is how the world could end. She is no longer certain she would mind if it did.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
Four days and the Alienage burns with rebellion, flames licking the rooftops even outside the secluded area.

“Is it the work of the magister I aided a while ago?” Cauthrien asks. “What are they doing there, your grace?”  
  
Then softer, under her breath in a voice reserved solely for him: “What have you _done_?”  
  
His silence fills the entire room.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Three days and Cauthrien thinks of treason, thinks of how she would go about it.  
  
  
*  
  
  
Two days to the Landsmeet and Loghain sits in the throne room, resting his forehead in his hands as he studies some parchments.  
  
Cauthrien wonders how many there are left to remember him as the man he is.  
  
When the King disappeared and Loghain had stopped his furious, coin-consuming search, Cauthrien had seen the loneliness raw and visible like new scars on his skin. Solitude, a hardening of the soul, the heavy insight that there is no one left alive who knows you.  
_  
I will remember you_ , she wows in her head now.  
  
  
*  
  
  
One day left. One, and the heat seems unnatural within the city gates.  
  
“It is almost time, your grace.” Cauthrien stands besides Loghain in the courtyard, too warm in her armour but too cautious to remove it although she is not formally on duty at this hour.  
  
“Yes,” he says, levelly. Glancing at him she can see new lines on his face this spring, the hair at his temples shifting in silver and black. As though this is aging him, harshly and all at once. It is both reasonable and unthinkable.  
  
To her, Loghain will never be old, never be young, will always be a man in the prime of his life, spotting her in the squalor of her previous life and shaping a warrior from what he had seen. He has been a mentor, a father-figure, a legend, a _friend_. And if she closes her eyes she can see how it will all end. All the different endings and outcomes dancing before her eyes.  
  
In all of them, she must betray him.  
  
_Maker forgive us._  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
The Landsmeet comes with the rain.  
  
Skies wide-open as it thunders down over them like punishments or warnings. And Cauthrien stands down peacefully; like a shuddering breath leaves her body she stands down; for the first and only time in her life she stands _down_. It is not as heart-wrenching as she had imagined it to be; it is the hardest choice she has ever made.  
  
There is grace in the Warden’s expression when she turns her head to look at her for the first time since they fought, blade against blade. Grace and a hard, sharp intelligence.  
  
_You are so much like him_ , Cauthrien thinks. _I hope you can see it._  
  
Later she watches Loghain mirror her defeat, watches him kneel in submission in front of a wide-eyed Warden who lowers her head, too, for a heartbeat.  
  
Heroes must not fall, the fabric of the world is torn every time one does.  
  
Heroes will inevitably fall; the question is how you handle it when they do.   
  
Before nightfall he is a Grey Warden.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says because she is. Not for standing down, never for _that_ ; she is sorry for everything that has passed since Ostagar, since long before that. For being blinded by her own loyalty, ruled by vanity and habit.  
  
Loghain looks at her over his shoulder from where he stands, packing the few belongings he’s brought to the Royal Palace. When their eyes meet she can spot a gentleness there that she hasn’t seen for so many years, perhaps never; he shakes his head. “It’s over,” he says. Then softer, in a voice reserved solely for her: “Thank the Maker.”


End file.
